


hope where have you gone?

by Atlanta_Black



Series: Harry Potter One-shots [22]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Gen, GoF - canon divergence, Grief, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28102941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlanta_Black/pseuds/Atlanta_Black
Summary: The hardest part is always, what comes next?When the person you loved(or didn't)is gone, and the next day dawns, what do you do then? Whatcanyou do?Another sequel following the events that occur shortly afterLet It Drownby local_doom_void.
Series: Harry Potter One-shots [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875151
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	hope where have you gone?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Let It Drown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23992198) by [local_doom_void](https://archiveofourown.org/users/local_doom_void/pseuds/local_doom_void). 



> What's up, I'm still alive, was busy writing a fic for a fest and moving but I'm back with some more sad boi content for y'all. 
> 
> This can be read before or after [what would I give](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177548), although I would recommend reading 'what would I give' first. 
> 
> Regardless you should definitely read [Let It Drown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23992198) **first**! Enjoy!

__

_And I was catching my breath_

__

_Staring out an open window_

__

_Catching my death_

__

_And I couldn't be sure_

__

_I had a feeling so peculiar_

__

_That this pain would be for_

__

_Evermore_

  


⚔

  
They tell him that his godson is dead. Dumbledore comes to the house he’d never wanted to return to and tells him, grief wrapped about his shoulders like penance, that Harry, that his godson is dead, and for a while all he knows is white and the feel of his throat scraped raw. 

When he comes back to himself, it is to Remus’s shaking, unsteady hands holding him back from Dumbledore. Holding him back from the man who had looked him in the eye and told him his godson would be _safe_. But Remus has already carried his guilt and grief around for 11 years, his breaking point always two steps away, and it takes nothing more than Sirius croaking out his name for his hands to drop, his place always having been beside Sirius, never behind him. 

They tell him that his godson is dead and he bares his teeth like the monster they all believed him to be and _yanks_ at the wards of the god-forsaken house. The picture of Dumbledore, mouth half-open in surprise, as the wards forcefully eject him from the house, burns the back of his eyelids. There are several other cut of cries from other parts of the house, the only ones left untouched are him and Remus. 

He thinks Harry would have let Molly and her kids stay. But Harry _isn’t here_ and there are only two others whose shoulders he’ll leave free of blame. 

They tell him that his godson is dead and leave him standing in the kitchen with nothing but his shaking hands, the peeling paint on the wall, the cracked sideboard, the squeaking cabinets. 

They tell him, they tell him, they tell him that Harry, that little Harry, his godson who held as a baby, when he was still so small Sirius could nearly hold him with just one hand, they tell him that Harry is dead and he doesn’t, he can’t, _what is he supposed to do?_

Remus sinks to the floor, back to the wall, head in his hands and Sirius stares at him, at the defeated curl to his shoulders and wants to burn something, wants to drag Dumbledore back so that he can burn that twinkle from his eyes, wants to raze the whole fucking world to the ground if only to bring Harry back. 

He can’t, he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t know how he can possibly do anything else now that this knowledge sits inside his heart. 

“He must have been so scared,” Remus whispers, face still buried in his hands and Sirius feels his heart stutter, grief spiking through his chest. “He must have been so fucking scared.” 

“I can’t do this.” He stalks out of the room, not waiting for a reply that may never come. Stalks out of the room and out the front door, not caring one bit for Dumbledore’s fucking orders to stay inside. 

When he comes back, the hours blurred together and his feet aching, Remus is still on the kitchen floor, eyes red-rimmed and wretched. 

“What do we do?” He whispers, staring up at Sirius with vacant, pleading eyes. “What do we do?”

Sirius doesn’t answer, still can’t find anything inside of himself except for rage. A blinding, heat soaked rage that had once led him across town to a street where he’d screamed at the rat. Had screamed and screamed until Peter had left the streets painted red and more guilt to lay on Sirius’ shoulders. 

He leaves Remus sitting on the kitchen floor, hands dangling between his knees, fingers flexing uselessly, the danger long gone before they’d even known there was any danger at all. He leaves him there and locks himself in his room and screams until his throat bleeds from the pain of it. Screams until the sound is all he can hear. Until the echo of his own grief fills him up and leaves him feeling something other than hollowed out and empty. 

_I failed,_ he thinks, wondering if James can hear him wherever he is. _You both died to keep him safe and I let him die anyway._

He doesn’t realize that he’s gripping the two-way mirror in his hand until the edge splinters, cutting into his hand, and leaving blood dripping its way down his wrist. He squeezes it tighter, lets the pain half ground him, and then, _“Harry,”_ he whispers, pleading despite the hopelessness of it all. The truth that he can feel burrowed into his bones. Harry is gone but still, still he can’t help but, he can’t help but try. 

“Harry, pup, please. Please, just,” he chokes, a keening cry ripping from his throat as he curls around the still dark mirror, chest burning with the pain of the knowledge sitting at the base of his spine. “Harry, _please. Please, please, please._ ” 

_Please,_ he begs, wishing for whatever higher power is out there to hear him, _please, I’d give myself up a thousand times before I let you take him. Give him back, give him back._

_Please._

_Please give him back. What am I supposed to do without him? Who am I supposed to protect? Who am I—_   


⚔

  
_“We regret to inform you of a tragic accident that has befallen your nephew. Your nephew, Harry James Potter, was killed while participating in —”_

She rips the letter in two and throws it in the bin. He was always destined to go that way. The same way as both his parents. That world taking people in and not spitting them out until they were cold and dead and _gone_. 

“Dudderkins!” She calls, casting one last glance at the bin. “Lunch is ready!” 

She grips the table with shaking hands and thinks of a little girl with shining red hair floating so, so slowly down from the swing. He was always destined to go this way. 

She had done all she could do.   


⚔

  
Potter never comes out of the maze.   
For some reason, despite the numerous warnings he’s heard about the tournament, and the death rates he’d so eagerly taunted Potter with, for some reason—

For some reason, this still leaves him reeling, cold and shaking. _They’re gone,_ the men yell, coming out of the maze with frantically waving hands and wild eyes. _They’re both gone and the cup too. Gone._

Potter never comes out of the maze, and Gryffindor tower may have been the only ones to hear Granger’s screams but the rumors spread fast and by evening the next day the entire school knows. _Harry Potter is dead._ Is dead and gone and never coming back. 

Harry Potter and his stupid glasses and his stupid scar and the stupid way he doesn’t seem to know how to function without those two plebeians he calls his friends and— 

Draco distantly realizes, around the noise of the water hitting the shower tile, distantly realizes that he’s gasping. Choking on sobs that seem too big for his body. Potter is gone. Gone and dead and never, never, never coming back and that means, that means the one person in this godforsaken world who was supposedly invincible, was nothing more than another scared child. That means, that if even Harry Potter, if even the boy who fucking lived, can die alone somewhere in a maze, body never found, then that means, that means—

That means Draco's life is nothing but a fragile glass toy for those bigger than him to shatter. If the boy-who-lived, lives no longer, then what hope is there for Draco? 

He was only fourteen, and Draco had held his own death in front of him as if it was nothing but a schoolyard taunt, and now he’s dead and gone, and his own heart has never felt so fucking fragile. Has never felt so light, and unconnected to his own body. Has never beat so fast, or so furiously. 

Harry Potter is dead. 

He died alone, in a magically grown maze, on school grounds. 

Harry Potter is dead, body mysteriously gone. 

And then Draco goes home for the summer and finds a man with bone-white skin trailing bare feet over the floor of his family's mansion. Finds a snake the length of his body, draped across the staircase like a macabre decoration. 

Draco goes home and the mystery is a mystery no longer. And now what is he supposed to do? Now, what is he supposed to do? _What is he suppose—_  


⚔

  
What do you do when the one thing you’ve always relied on to get you by, suddenly becomes the most useless thing in the world? Fred doesn’t have an answer to this question. Doesn’t have an answer for how to take this cotton ball grief in his lungs and turn it into something that will make people smile. 

Doesn’t have the answer for how to make his little brother's eyes come back to life. Doesn’t have an answer for how to take his baby sister’s rage and shoulder it as his own. All he has are these godforsaken, useless hands that had clasped Harry’s shoulder in a useless display of luck. 

He doesn’t know what to do and he can see the same hopeless grief reflected back in George’s face. This is not something they can fix with a joke and a laugh. This is not something they can even begin to fight. All he can do is watch as his baby brother stares blank holes into a wall, the life seemingly having flown out of him. All he can do is watch the rage in his baby sister flare so bright he fears it will burn her right up. 

His mum gets louder as if she’s trying to make up for the lack of noise that Ron and Harry and Hermione would normally be causing. As if she’s trying to make up for the empty space at their table. Their dad spends more time at work, more time with Dumbledore, more time anywhere but their house, anywhere but in this house filled to the brim with grief and overflowing. 

Percy leaves. Packs his bags and leaves, not a word of goodbye. _Good riddance_ , they mutter in private, doing their best to ignore the way their mum’s voice gets louder and their sister's rage gets brighter, and Ron—

Well, they’re not sure if Ron even realizes that Percy is gone at all. Isn’t sure if Ron is aware of anything at all happening around him. 

And Fred and George, well they do what they’ve never done before, they fade into the background and wait, the summer dragging along at its own sticky slow pace. What else can they do? What else can they possibly do in the face of a grief so much bigger than them all? 

Someone, please, tell them what to do. Tell them how to take this fractured family they call theirs and stitch it back together. 

There’s no way to do this, they know this, and so they stay quiet instead. Pressing whispered words into the doors of their house, _please, keep the rest of them safe. Please, we can’t lose another one. Please, tell us what to do. Please, tell us what—_  


⚔

  
His bones ache. Ache in a way they never have before, not once in his fourteen years of teaching. He remembers, standing here four years ago, furious and spiteful. Unable to feel anything but a deep, abiding hatred for the child that had cost Lily her life. 

He’s no longer sure what he feels. _I’ll keep him safe, for her_ , he had said, had sworn, had promised. _I’ll keep him safe_ , and he’s failed just as surely as everyone else. The child is now gone and dead at the dark lord’s hand. 

His bones ache. 

The child is dead. 

Yet what else can he do but soldier on? What else can he do?   


⚔

  
Susan knows grief. Knows the acid sweet taste of loss sliding down the back of your throat and threading through your ribs like a bad dream brought to life. She knows that people die, the stark reminder of death always present in the absence of her parents. She _knows_ grief, intimately, closely, better than any friend or lover she’s ever had. 

She knows anger, knows rage, knows the fiery rush of fury that leaves her hands shaking, and lungs burning. Knows what it feels like to have her anger dismissed because of the color of a piece of cloth that hangs like a leash around her neck. 

She knows these things she does, and yet, despite her intimate knowledge of fear, of grief, of rage, the loss of one of her own, the loss of Cedric leaves something heat soaked and furious licking at her bones and digging its claws into her heart in a way she’s never felt. She wants to rage, wants to scream, wants to demand that the ministry do _something_ , anything at all. Surely there must be something they can do? 

There are two students _dead_. Dead and gone and never coming back. Hermione Granger had screamed so loud the sound sank into the stone of the castle and got lost. Had screamed until she had no voice left to scream with. 

Susan wishes she could do the same. But Hufflepuff’s are _kind_ and _quiet_ and always well spoken and well mannered and they do, not, cause, a, fuss. They do not scream their rage and pain for everyone to hear. They tuck it away beneath their ribs and they wait. 

She’s so tired of waiting. It’s been an entire summer, not a word of news about either student killed. Her aunt meets her eyes every night and shakes her head no. Says, _soon, Susan, soon. Be patient. Soon._

Soon is a pretty promise that never comes. September 1st dawns bright and crisp and soon is still not upon them. Soon is still a red brushed day in the future that never comes and is only mentioned when you push, when you ask, over and over again, _when?_

There are two students dead and she steps back onto the train that will take her to the school that got them killed. She hugs her aunt goodbye _(for what could be the last time)_ , and presses a kiss to her cheek _(tries to memorize the smell of her freshly powdered cheek)_ , and willingly steps onto a train _(for what could be the very last time)_. 

It won’t be a quiet year. She knows this. Harry Potter may be dead but whatever, whoever, killed him is still very much out there. _We’ll watch Granger and Weasley_ , Hannah whispers, grief soaking through her words. _The trouble always starts there,_ and she nods in agreement. 

What else can she do she thinks helplessly, meeting Ginny’s eyes as she passes the compartment. What else can she possibly do? There’s a school riddled with problems and two students dead and the adults all whisper _what a shameful accident. What a shame, what a shame._

The adults all whisper their condolences and send their children back to a building that was once used for war. 

So tell her, what else can she do?  


⚔

  
It has been a long while since Minerva has felt so weary. A long while since she’s stood in front of the school and seen more fear than joy in the faces of the children they’re supposed to protect. 

A long while since it felt that she must be standing at the edge of a precipice she can’t see. 

Hermione Granger sits stiff and straight-backed at the very end of the table, Miss Weasley the only one seemingly brave enough to approach her. The two girls have their heads bent together and rage written into every jerky, cut off movement. 

Ronald Weasley sits quiet and blank-faced in the middle of the table, hands folded in his lap, eyes staring straight ahead. She never thought the day would come that she would wish for a Weasley’s awful table manners and yet, here that day is. 

Mr. Malfoy looks ill from his spot at the Slytherin table. Miss Abbot and Miss Bones are imitating the same jerky, cut off motions she sees coming from many of the children at the Gryffindor table. A broken, half-formed rage that she’s never seen in the students before. None of them before ever having to experience the uncertainty of losing a classmate in such a manner. 

Mr. Longbottom is sitting next to Mr. Weasley, speaking in low tones, not seeming to care that he’s getting no response. His posture is straighter this year and he meets her eyes evenly when he glances up, there’s no hint of the timid boy who had entered her classroom four years ago. 

Mr. Potter and Mr. Diggory’s deaths have left a blanket of grief settled on the school. It’s weight bringing down even those students who did not like the students who have passed. 

She can’t help but wonder, when the blanket lifts, what will be left underneath? Shouldn’t there be more that she can do? Some way for her to help lift this burden of grief sitting on these children’s shoulders? 

She takes a deep breath, unrolls her scroll, and calls the first name, for really, what else is there that she can do?   


⚔

  
The theastral breathes warm air softly in her face. She presses a gentle hand to the sharp bone on its neck and hums along quietly to the song in the back of her head. 

“It was a good dance, wasn’t it Harry?” She asks softly, tilting her face to the sky and blinking as the rain hits her face. In the distance the bright lights of Hogwarts shine back at her, their sprawling turrets and sloping walls never having looked as unwelcoming as they do now. 

“Hermione and Ron will keep everyone else safe for you,” she whispers, pressing her face to the theastral’s snout and breathing in the musty smell of raw meat and fresh grass. “We’ll keep everyone else safe.”

She breathes in deeply, pulls back, and digs her toes into the wet ground. Breathes deeply and stares up at the sky. “Tell your mum and dad I said hello,” she tells the sky, paying no attention to the tears on her face or the sharp creature nuzzling at her open palm. “Tell my mum hello for me too if you will, and don’t worry about us. We’ll be okay.”   


⚔

  



End file.
